


Bounce

by tresshots



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Bottom Derek, Dirty Talk, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lapdance, M/M, Porn With a Bit of Feelings, Stripper Derek, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8277760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tresshots/pseuds/tresshots
Summary: "He’s wearing a soft maroon sweater with thumb holes and tight, shiny Superman briefs. It’s both the most erotic and weirdest thing Stiles has ever seen a stripper wear. 
So this is what little Derek Hale has grown up to. Stiles has the most confused boner ever."
an "you’re the hot stripper at my friend’s bachelor(ette) party" au





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because stripper!Derek is a classic. This got unreasonably filthy. Oh well. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 

Lydia is a precious thing of beauty and happiness and all things bubbly, and Stiles would fight anyone who argued otherwise.

She’s currently holding a champagne glass in her hand, the massive diamond on her left ring finger in blatant display, but who could blame her? That thing’s the size of a small egg. No matter how much Stiles and Jackson’s love-hate relationship leans a bit more to the latter, Stiles can admit he’s pretty freaking proud Jackson finally got his shit together and proposed to her. Really, if this red-cheeked, giggling version of Lydia is the result, he should propose to her every single day.

In all honesty Stiles isn’t quite sure why he’s the only guy who’s been invited to the bachelorette party – he’s nobody’s Gay Best Friend, thank you very much – but then again he’s mostly just proud that they’ve let him into their Badass Bitches Squad. Lydia is a goddess in her own right, but it’s not like Allison or Erica are some meager wallflowers.

Stiles is just the slightest bit envious about their gorgeousness, but that disappears as soon as Erica suddenly grabs at his face with an attentive gleam.

“For the last time, I refuse to play the glass-wearing, ponytailed girl to your evil cheerleader makeoverist, Erica, drop it,” he swats at her with zero success.

“Stiles, babe,” she sighs uncharacteristically patient. “Look at us. All dolled up and hotness defined. The material’s already there, just let me poke at it a little, please?”

“There’s absolutely no way I can ever match you, so get off my face,” Stiles grumbles.

“I won’t do anything drastic,” Erica coaxes. “Just a little glitter here, maybe a bit of eyeliner there. Let me raid your closet. That’s all.”

Stiles has denial on the tip of his tongue, but then Lydia just has to open her angelically pouty mouth. “Please, Stiles? For me?” she smiles warmly, and considering how rare that is from her? Stiles’ absolute kryptonite, _shit._

“I bet you’d look really nice,” Allison dimples at him.

“Come on, Stiles. When was the last time you got laid?” Erica asks, and the truth is, it’s been so long Stiles has forgotten how it feels like to fuck something else than his fist.

“I live to serve,” he humbles and is smothered under long legs and carefully curled strands of hair, and Stiles thinks no amount of self-pride is more important than a love fest from his ladies.

 

The girls wanted to enjoy a night out without being groped, so they chose the biggest gay club in the closest city – or so they told Stiles. He should’ve known from Erica’s smirk there was an ulterior motive to the club choice.

Stiles has been getting looks from some cute guys already, so he feels pretty great, but it’s getting really crowded in the dancefloor, and so he doesn’t resist at all when Allison starts leading them all away.

“Let’s get some water,” Allison explains, yet winks theatrically, and Stiles’ interest is definitely piqued; even more so when they head next to the bar and Erica slips behind heavy velvet curtains, getting a nod from the big guy guarding the entrance.

Allison goads a suspicious Lydia in, and so Stiles is the last to follow. He walks the long curvy staircase down and the music changes to something throbbing and dark and _sexy_ as he goes.

He gets to the bottom and there’s another big dude guarding a door - Boyd, his nametag reads - and Erica slips him a bill. Stiles is just about to ask what the hell is going on when Boyd opens the door and Stiles almost swallows his tongue.

Holy shit. It’s a strip club, absolutely skeevy in the best possible way. Stiles _loves it_.

There’s a single stage in the middle of the room, an almost-naked guy dancing for his audience. In fact, there’s hot guys absolutely everywhere; the waitresses are wearing shockingly little, as are the bartenders, and Stiles doesn’t even really know where to begin to look.

Apparently he’s zoned out a little, because Erica grabs him by the shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Come on!”

“What? Where are we going?” he asks, puzzled, and gets a red smirk in return.

“Guess who booked us a booth.”

Stiles’ friends are the _best_.

 

So they settle down to their _private strip booth_ , isn’t that the nicest phrase Stiles has ever heard, and open the champagne bottle on the table. It’s a small, intimate room; dark purple interior, mirrored walls and a small stage. In the middle of the table is a dancing pole, and they’re all buzzing with the need to see it put to good use.

Erica makes them all do a round of shots, and they’re deep into a heated conversation about what their price rates would be if they ever had to do stripping, when suddenly the lights dim and powerful bass rattles the table and walls.

A hissing sound, and a fog layer fills the stage. Soft purple lightning reveals the form of a living wet dream of a man.

The girls are all breathy laughter, reaching for their purses, urgently scrambling for wallets, but Stiles couldn’t move even a toe. He’s quite aware his mouth is hanging wide open, but _how could it not_? He can already tell the guy is ripped, and what’s worse is that he’s not even undressed yet. And his face? Even more beautiful than what can be seen of his body.

The stripper is utterly stunning; jet black hair, a sharp nose and even sharper jawline; piercing eyes and that facial hair, oh god. Stiles is so happy for the loud music or Erica would never let him forget about his turned on whimper. He has never wanted to suck somebody’s dick so bad, and Stiles earned the title of _enthusiastic cocksucker_ in college for a good reason.

It doesn’t get any less breathtaking when the stripper actually starts the show. He’s all rippling muscles and smooth moves; he’s not quite dancing, more like just showing himself off, and fuck but doesn’t that work greatly in his favor. He’s wearing a flimsy little t-shirt and jeans, and he’s barefoot, how is that a turn-on? _How_ is that appropriate in any way? Stiles is losing his mind and then the guy starts losing the shirt, and this is officially the worst thing to ever happen to him, because nothing else will ever compare again.

Stiles is sexually ruined. He doesn’t even care.

The guy throws his shirt right to Stiles’ fucking face, Jesus, _it smells nice_ , and he scrambles hastily to take it off, wants to see everything. He’s not disappointed the slightest bit. But when Stiles finally drags his gaze from the bulging, glistening washboard eight pack up to the guy’s face, his heart drops right into his ribcage – he’s staring _right at Stiles_.

He looks haughty, pleased, and full of pride at the same time. And what is that even supposed to mean, why’s he looking at Stiles like there’s something going on, Stiles needs to work his overheated brain and figure this out before –

\- the guy _rips off his jeans_ and he’s left in _women’s underwear_ , a silly frilly little thing that resembles Moulin Rouge’s Satine’s pink feather attire, cockhead visible, and Stiles _can’t. Breathe._

He’s got a pornstar cock. Figures.

The guy abandons the stage and climbs sultry on their table, who the fuck even _climbs in a sultry way_ , and executes some sort of a really sexy, front-twerking move in front of Lydia, grinding his crotch practically in her face.

The girls are squealing from absolute joy, and Stiles stifles his need to murder Lydia right there _out of pure jealousy_.

The girls are stuffing the stripper's panties with bills and he’s not quite smiling but he looks satisfied, though. He accepts the mere offerings, takes his time with each girl, and then turns to Stiles.

Eyebrows up, what color are his eyes even, and Stiles has never seen anything quite like him. Except – no. Wait. _Yes he has_.

Because _finally_ it clicks. This is none other than Derek Hale; the boy Stiles went to high school with. The nerdy, four-eyed, chubby, short Derek Hale, who rode the bus and was always left in the shadow of his sisters. Stiles used to tease him about his bunny teeth, horrible singing voice and old, ratty t-shirts.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Stiles just might cry.

The girls are staring at him, impatiently shouting at him to do his part. With shaking fingers Stiles reaches for his wallet, and it takes fucking _ages_ to get it. He grabs the fifty in there, looks up and Derek is just there, all sexy and muscly, staring at him. He doesn’t make any effort to make this any easier for Stiles.

Stiles slips the bill beneath Derek’s panties, and it’s a fucking miracle he manages the task. His skin is so hot to the touch, and Stiles’ mind is reeling. Erica catcalls with approval.

His inner turmoil only revs up when Derek turns back to Lydia, grouches down just a little, and kisses her. It’s not a deep kiss by any means, but he does slip her some tongue, and all the while keeps looking at Stiles from the corner of his eye.

Stiles is hot and bothered, he wants to strangle them both, preferably stuff Derek’s nasty mouth shut with his cock. Finally Derek gets up, doesn’t even bother to take his clothes with him, is gone with a smirk on that handsome face.

So this is what little Derek Hale has grown up to. What the _actual hell_? Stiles has the most confused boner _ever_.

 

Stiles has completely lost the sense of time. They’ve joined the crowd in the main room, and strippers have been coming and going on the stage. The girls have apparently made lots of friends in the audience surrounding them, but Stiles isn’t really interested in anything else except getting drunk.

So he doesn’t question it at all when Erica pushes a shot of tequila and a slice of lemon under his nose. “Here! Have this!” she yells and Stiles downs it with vigor. “Hey, this is Boyd!” she introduces the guy standing next to him.

“I’m not gonna fuck the bouncer, Erica, what the hell,“ Stiles groans. Boyd rolls his eyes in response, which is offending. Stiles is a fucking catch, okay? Well, maybe not as much as Derek Hale, but _who is_?

Yeah, he’s still bitter as fuck and slightly hard, _so what._

“Oh, don’t worry, he’s not for you,” Erica smiles smugly. “But you should follow him now. ‘Cause guess who’s got himself a private show?”

“… What?”

“Did you think you were subtle when you were eyefucking the guy earlier, the one in our booth? Nah. Well, I made a little research, and guess what! He had a free slot for tonight,” Erica looks very impressed with herself.

Boyd lays a heavy hand on Stiles’ shoulder, starts leading him away. Stiles is internally screaming, can’t do anything except screech after her. “Erica, please,” he yells in panic, but to no avail.

“You can thank me later!” Erica yells after her, waves a little and then Stiles is whisked away.

 

Boyd pushes him down to sit in a chair, says, “He’ll be here soon, make yourself comfortable,” and leaves him alone. It’s a lot smaller booth, this time, with nothing but his chair and a pole. A couple of spotlights can be spotted in the ceiling, and naturally there’s a sound system surrounding the room, but other than that? There’s nothing else to keep Stiles company except the sound of his own, furiously beating heart.

He’s glued to his seat. He keeps wiggling his thumbs, nerves and anticipation pooling in the bottom of his tummy. Stiles desperately wishes he’d brought a drink with him, _anything_ to do besides thinking about what’s to come.

Derek, Derek is about to come, that’s what, and he does. No theatrical entrance this time; he just appears from behind the black curtains, really, what is it with this place and curtains? – and it’s quiet, _why_ is it quiet, where’s the music?

He’s wearing a soft maroon sweater with thumb holes, _what even_ , which does nothing to hide his body, and tight, shiny Superman briefs. It’s both the most erotic and weirdest thing Stiles has ever seen a stripper wear.

“Hi,” Derek says in a much softer voice Stiles would’ve expected; all honey and sugar, none of the scruffiness he would’ve imagined. God, he could shoot just listening to a bit of dirty talk from that voice.

Stiles hesitates to even open his mouth out of pure fear this will all disappear – what if he’s in the wrong room after all, and this god of a man isn’t meant for him, or is purely the product of his overvivid imagination? What’s he supposed to do then?

Derek scans him from head to feet. Stiles’ toes curl. He feels like prey.

“Cat got your tongue?” Derek gives him a wicked smile, closes in on Stiles, bypassing the pole completely to his surprise.

“Hi,” Stiles finally crooks and he feels so clumsy in comparison to Derek who moves like a fucking predator, coming up to Stiles and he drops on his knees just like that, what the hell?

“Is this your first time? I’ve haven’t seen you here before,” Derek says in a conversational tone even as settles more comfortably on the floor, lays his hands on both of Stiles’ thighs, spreads them so he can scoot a little closer.

“It’s my friend’s bachelorette party,” Stiles swallows. He’s starting to sweat. “Yeah, this – it’s definitely my first private dance.”

“I was told you’re a first class client,” Derek says, slides his hands agonizingly slow up Stiles’ thighs. “Do you know what that means?” he fucking _purrs_.

Stiles’ throat is closing up. “No.”

“It means that somebody paid a hell lot of money so that you could touch me, too.” He flutters his unbelievably long eyelashes coyly. “Would you like that, Stiles?”

Stiles hardens just from that. He’d be ashamed if Derek wasn’t so fucking hot. “Yeah,” he admits dizzily. “I – so you do recognize me?”

Derek laughs delightedly, raises a hand to Stiles’ face. “Sure I do.” He pushes at Stiles’ mouth with his thumb, and Stiles can’t help himself, it’s a reflex, takes the offered finger between his lips and sucks on it.

Derek’s eyes go dark and intent. “Do you want me to dance for you?” he asks, voice low and husky.

“Do… do you want to dance for me?” Stiles asks and gets a smile in return.

“Very much so.”

“Great,” Stiles croaks. Derek’s now wet thumb rests lightly against his lower lip, catches against it when he speaks. “Works for me.”

“Well,” Derek says and there’s a sharp snap, and suddenly, _music_. It’s not the party beat Stiles has been hearing for the past hour, rather than something really low and sexy, just like Derek himself.

Derek stands only to settle down in Stiles’ lap, and it’s a surprising, yet completely welcome weight. Stiles’ breath hitches as Derek brings his hands behind the chair, and he really can’t keep his own arms from wrapping around Derek’s waist.

Just like his striptease hadn’t been as much a dance as a show, Derek’s lapdance isn’t really a lapdance. Stiles sure isn’t an expert, but he thinks this probably should or could be something else than what Derek’s doing; he’s traveling his hands all around Stiles’ body; fingertips sneaking under his shirt, reaching up to mess with his hair, and there’s eye contact the whole fucking time.

Derek pulls away just enough to take off his sweater, and his muscles ripple with the move, Stiles is in _love_. In an incredibly athletic move Derek bends backwards so his body is on display, and Stiles just has to touch, just a little bit; he puts his hands on Derek’s abs, touches his sides, his nipples, and Derek comes back up with a flush under his stubble.

Stiles is unbelievably aroused, and that’s before Derek starts grinding on his cock, slow and torturing, every move _just right_ but _not enough_. Stiles is biting at his lip but a whimper escapes through, breaking the holy silence.

“You used to call me pudgy,” Derek breathes hotly in his ear. “Now you’d do anything to get to fuck me, wouldn’t you, Stiles?” he brushes a tiny kiss just beneath Stiles’ jawline.

“Fuck,” Stiles whispers. “Yeah,” he admits. Hearing his name from Derek’s lips is the only thing he needs.

Neither of them would be able to tell who made the first move – maybe Derek turns his head, or Stiles his own, whatever, the only thing that matters is that it _does happen_. They’re kissing, and their bodies press together tighter to make sure there’s not a single inch of air between them.

Derek is crushing Stiles to the chair, and he could resist, probably, but why the hell would he? It’s the perfect place to be.

Suddenly there’s greedy fingers pulling at his shirt, and Stiles lets it happen, doesn’t even care Derek throws his expensive shirt carelessly to the side, needs to feel skin to skin right the fuck now. And it’s so good, they’re making out, hands mapping each other’s bodies, but then the warmth _disappears_.

Stiles would object but Derek’s falling to his knees, and he’s opening Stiles’ jeans with fervor, chest heaving. Stiles fights to keep his eyes open, raises his ass to help Derek in his quest and little does he know, he’s naked just like that.

Derek rises to his feet and pushes down the agonizing underwear, doesn’t bother to be shy about it; he knows what Stiles needs right now and for sure that’s not a slow tease. Derek’s dick is so fucking big and thick and for the millionth time of night Stiles wonders what the hell has he ever done to deserve this, must’ve been something _really_ good.

“Please,” Stiles sobs desperately. “I gotta – you have to let me fuck you, _please_.”

Derek drops down to his lap again, and starts moving, this time with purpose. Stiles fucks up to it, hips making aborted little moves, and he slivers his hand to Derek’s ass, slips a fingers between the cheeks, and holy shit, Derek is _wet_.

”Did you plan this?” Stiles gasps, can’t believe Derek has come here all lubed up, wishing Stiles would be willing to fuck him.

It gets even more confusing when Derek looks at him like he’s the dumbest person in existence. ”Ever since I was _sixteen_ , yeah,” he says.

Hold on. “What?”

“It’s such a cliché, don’t you think,” Derek confesses. “I had such a crush on you back then, and you wouldn’t even look at me twice. I was probably too weird or ugly for you, and yet. You wouldn’t take your eyes off my dick when I danced for you and your friends.”

“Derek,” Stiles mumbles, so fucking ashamed and confused and horny. Is this a punishment or foreplay, he just doesn’t know. “Let me apologize,” he says, slipping a careful finger inside Derek’s hole, and holy _shit_ , it’s hot and tight and slick, and Derek’s mouth drops open.

“I used to fantasize about this,” Derek says and he looks so out of it, all because of one finger, Jesus, wonder how he reacts when Stiles feeds his dick to him. “Used to finger myself in the bathroom during breaks. Wanted you to stumble in and catch me, stuff me with your cock instead.”

“Sorry I’m so late,” Stiles adds a second finger. “If it’s any consolation, I’m about to fuck that tight little ass of yours.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees and he’s so malleable, completely drugged by Stiles’ touch, it’s _intoxicating_.

“What, no sassy answer? Tell me, Derek, you fucking writhed on my cock like a needy little slut. Was that on purpose?”

“I was trying to get you to fuck me,” Derek mumbles and turns his head. “Kiss me.”

It’s all wet and filthy, Derek pushing his tongue as far down Stiles’ throat as possible, all while rocking on his lap, trying to get more of Stiles’ fingers inside that needy little hole. 

“C’mon, I’m ready,” Derek gasps. “Do it.”

“Ask me nicely and maybe I will.”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me, I need you, push your cock in me and cum inside, make me wet with it,” Derek cries, and Jesus, what a filthy mouth.

Stiles takes hold of his cock and guides it to Derek’s ass. “Just the tip now, babe,” he coaxes, pushes in just a bit. “Nice and slow, that’s how good boys do it. Enjoy it, you’re taking all of my cock but not just yet, I want you to do it slow, okay?”

Derek puts both his hands on Stiles’ chest, taking support, and starts working on it, dropping himself lower inch by inch, devouring with a feverish need. Derek might have a pornstar cock but what Stiles’ equipment loses in length, he wins by width; his cock is thick as a can, and it’s no small task to take it in this position, but Derek’s doing so well, panting and sweating until finally, fucking finally Stiles is balls deep in him.

“Does it feel good, baby? Is your asshole happy now? Do you feel full with my thick cock?” Stiles murmurs softly, kisses at Derek’s chest. “You have beautiful tits too. Fuck, you look so good, your pussy feels so good around me. That’s what it is, isn’t it? A sweet, needy little boypussy, all for me to use?”

“Yeah,” Derek barely whispers. His eyes are all pupil. “Am I taking it good?”

“Yeah, you are, you’re doing so well, sweetheart. But I need you to move. Wanna feel how you ride my big cock, how you fuck that pussy with it, okay?”

“Just wanna be good for you,” Derek continues his adorable confessions, and Stiles smiles sweetly at him.

“I know. And you are, you’re so good, Derek, but you need to _move_.”

He doesn’t have to say it twice: Derek’s muscles are to die for; he’s so tight and controlled all over, big muscles bulging from the effort of fucking himself on Stiles. Stiles barely moves his hips, doesn’t want to do anything to ruin the sight: Derek is gorgeous, head curved backwards, mouth open.

“Such pretty little nipples, indeed,” Stiles takes Derek’s left nipple between his teeth. “And the noises you make, Jesus. Desperate little comeslut, aren’t you? You saw me and wanted to get fucked so badly, didn’t you?”

“Need your hot come,” Derek breathes. “Want it dripping out of me, want you to lick it up from my ass and feed it in my mouth, I’ve thought about your cock so much, I can’t – ah – Stiles – “

Derek shifts against the pressure, cries when Stiles bites at his nipple. Stiles’ fingers dig into Derek’s sides, moving with guidance, forcing him to take his cock deeper, bottoming out on every thrust. Derek lets out a loud moan – too loud.

“Ssh, babe, you don’t want everyone to hear, do you? Fuck, keep making noise like that and somebody will take a peek,” Stiles says. “Unless of course that’s what you want. Maybe you want them to see how you’re taking it up the ass – yeah, nobody would ever believe it, when you look like you do. Am I the first to treat you right? To give it to you like you need it?”

“They always want me to fuck them,” Derek pouts and Stiles chuckles amused.

“My poor baby. It’s okay, Derek, you can take it now, just how you like it.”

“Thank you,” Derek whispers against his lips and kisses him, sweet and fast, starts bouncing up and down with religious fervor. His cock is leaking against his stomach, and Stiles finally starts meeting the moves, pace absolutely brutal now.

“You should see yourself, fuck, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, you’re fucking gorgeous. Nothing pudgy about you. All muscle and that huge horse cock between your legs, your big boy balls – shit, you don’t even know. You’re fucking perfect,” Stiles groans. “You’re gonna feel me for days. Your pussy feels like it’s mine, you know? And you’re gonna remember me every time you try to fuck somebody else, because I give it to you so good, shit, Derek. You’re _mine_.”

And that’s what makes Derek come, white cum spreading up his own abs, hips freezing still and he’s clenching down on Stiles’ cock who doesn’t need but two shallow thrusts and he’s coming too, shooting inside Derek, fucking up into him with the rhythm of his pulsing.

It’s the longest orgasm Stiles has ever fucking had, and he’s seeing actual stars, it’s still so hard to believe this is not a dream, but nope – Derek’s in his lap, alive and breathing and all soft.

They stare at each other in complete silence, both just taking their fill in, until Stiles softens so much he has to pull out with a wet squelch, feeling weirdly empty himself, even though he wasn’t even the one getting fucked. “So,” he swallows. “Do you know what’s the best place to enjoy the afterglow, in my opinion?”

Derek clears his throat, looks around for his clothes. “The Eiffel Tower?”

It’s now or never, Stiles decides. “No, but pretty close. I’m staying over in a fancy hotel, you know, and I’ve got a room all for myself on the 37th floor. The view is pretty great. I bet you’d like it.”

Derek’s face closes off. “I can’t.”

He tries to get up, but Stiles holds frantically on; he wants this man so much, and maybe it’s poor form to ask something like this from someone who’s simply doing his job, but that’s exactly what Stiles needs to know, though. “Do you fuck all your clients?”

“Yes, Stiles Stilinski, you’re fucking special,” Derek rolls his eyes, gets some of his swagger back. Stiles repels at the words, _his heart is hurting_ at the obvious rejection, but Derek shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m not a whore.”

”I know, god, I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean it like that,” Stiles hurries to explain. “Look, I know I’m probably making a proper fool out of myself, and I really have no right to ask you for anything more you’re willing to give, and that? That was already the highlight of my year, maybe my entire life. But, Derek. I don’t think you usually fuck your clients, but you did fuck me. And I don’t know, maybe it’s nothing to you, but I don’t – please, come with me. I just want to see you in my bed. I mean, it’s a hotel bed, but still. I just want you.”

Stiles feels bile rise up in his throat, Derek keeps just staring at him like he can’t believe his ears and what the hell, why did he have to say all that, what’s wrong with him?! Once again he’s being such an oversharing fool, no wonder he never gets laid, shit, he’s amazed Derek isn’t hitting him right now.

And the most amazing thing happens: Derek kisses him.

It’s so different from the touches they’ve just shared; Derek cups his face between his palms like he wants to shield him from the rest of the world, and he’s so strong and earnest Stiles melts to it.

It’s a long, lingering kiss, flicks of tongue and nibbly teeth, and when it ends, they don’t stop touching each other. “I meant no, because I still have two customers tonight,” Derek explains.

“Oh.” Stiles blinks. “Well, that’s stupid. I mean – I can wait.”

Stiles is a little dazed from the power of Derek’s blinding smile. He’s absolutely _glowing_.  “Yeah?”

“Hell, you just watch me, can I _ever_.”

He doesn’t get to run his mouth much more, because Derek claims it with his own. They make out a little more. A _lot_ more, whatever, who’s counting anyway?

“A date too, though,” Stiles gasps wetly when Derek moves to kiss his collarbone. “Tomorrow, okay? I will woo the living daylights out of you, Derek Hale.”

“Seven works for me,” Derek says solemnly. “But, Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m still keeping the fifty, though.”


End file.
